


Significant Other

by cinnamonstyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Blackmail, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Stalking, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamonstyles/pseuds/cinnamonstyles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some may call it an obsession, but it's just an interest.</p>
<p>Or, Harry Styles is the lead singer of the most influential band of the decade, and Louis is an obsessed photography student who takes an assignment a little bit too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Significant Other

_there's a fire on the other side of town_   
_and darlin, i wish i could take you there._

**hollow darling, hollow - authentic fortnight.**

one.

Some may call it an obsession, but it's just an interest.   
It's healthy to have an interest in things, and god knows I spent many a months of the past year in a depression-like state where I couldn't even be bothered to read the paper, let alone love something as much as this. A lot of people my age are trying to find their passion in life, that's probably why they even go to university in the first place. Everyone just wants to find themselves. Me, I always thought that was a journey I'd never have to take, I knew exactly who I was.

Now, standing in front of a foggy, full body mirror, admiring the latest addition of ink to my almost full sleeve, I realise that maybe I was wrong, and that didn't matter, because I know now. I know what truly matters to me.

“What do you think?” my regular tattoo artist Paolo drawls, in a voice clearly affected by ten years of heavy smoking. “Cool, huh?”

I wouldn't trust Paolo as far as I could throw him with anything but a tattoo gun. “You really outdid yourself”, I mumble back at him. A spiraling arrow design now wraps it's way down from my shoulder to my elbow, colours dotted around like splashes of paint. In the gaps, the words of a song in a scratched, crimson font can be read.

“I recognise it, you see? Where have I seen this? The words, too.”

I look him in the eye maybe for the first time today as I hand over my card. “It's just some art from one of my favourite albums.”

Paolo isn't one to press, he probably senses not to get me started. I always respect that he never asks me the meaning behind any of my tattoos, from the first one I ever got on my thigh, to my more recent full sleeve projects. If he had, he'd know they were all related, and maybe I'd be too embarrassed and have to find a new studio to go to.   
While he's taking payment, I take the liberty of wrapping the plastic film back around my arm – I've done this enough times, after all – and find myself singing the verse under my breath as I do. _Take my soul for bliss, it is what it is, when flames ignite my rancid bones passion takes it's flight._

Of course Paolo recognises it, though. A lyric from an album voted the most influential rock album of the decade, the album that graced the front page of every credible music publication for months, a band that were household names no matter where you went. I was never a fan of rock music until I came across Authentic Fortnight, until I knew all about the one and only Harry Styles.

I'm thinking about him as I hastily say my goodbyes, find my bike set down against the railings outside and throw my rucksack in the front basket. I know I'm late for my university lecture, but I stop to put on my headphones before riding back to campus all the same. That record, My Soul for Bliss, really had given me solace, something to live for, something I cared about. I have to admit, it isn't just the music that makes me fall in love with the band on a daily basis, it's Harry. Of course it is, is there anyone who doesn't feel that way? I guess I started feeling something more towards him when I really got into them and started spending my evenings either on my couch at home, or that creaky dorm room bed, watching performances. You can tell a lot about a band from the quality of their albums, but even more so by the way they handle themselves on stage, and I could instantly see why they had always been hailed as the next big thing, until they were the biggest thing imaginable. I can guarantee you my mum does not know Slipknot from The Beatles, but she knew exactly who sang in Authentic Fortnight the day I brought them up at the dinner table. Everyone knows Harry Styles. He became a legend before he could legally drink.

I turn the volume up louder, think about what this song looks like when Harry performs on stage. His raw vocals, the sweat dripping off his face, unruly brown hair tied back, green eyes sparkling. The band would be on fire, as always, a never ending energy exuding from everyone within hearing distance. I remember thinking that what I felt when I looked at him was the closest thing I'd ever felt to love, but shaking it off – probably just admiration, of course I adore him, how could I not? I guess it wasn't until I found more people that truly understood what he meant to me that I stopped feeling a bit strange. After I finished secondary school, it was like I lost any friends I thought I had. After the accident, I lost even more.

I know I'm late for my lecture, I've been late since before I even got to campus, maybe it was a stupid idea to schedule a tattoo sitting across town, three hours before I had to be at my main class of the day, but that would imply that I care. That sounds harsh. Truth is I try to care, but when you're invisible, or even worse – average – it becomes a tired game really quick. This is proven to me by the time I finally make it to the second floor of the main building, into the smallest lecture hall on site, which usually houses my photography class group of 40. I'm able to slide in and let myself fall into an empty back row with no more than a stern look from our professor (an always smartly dressed middle aged woman, who does insist on being called Professor Pearson at all times) for disturbing her lesson. “As I was saying...” she continues, with no further glances in my direction.

I don't hate photography. I went through a lot of prospectuses in search of a course, a back up, just in case football didn't work out for me and I had to take a different route. I'd always liked taking photographs, whenever I wasn't playing a match I was the one taking the photos, to be published in my clubs magazine of course, and that naturally led to me taking pictures at a lot of sport events in my local area. I think that's probably why I got in, I included a lot of bullshit in my personal statement about capturing split seconds of action, moments of determination on the faces of athletes, anything that really sounded somewhat educated despite the fact I was writing it at 3am, the day before the deadline. I was lucky that I got accepted, I just didn't think this was where I'd be this year, but this is where I am. Football was, is, and always will be out of the question now.

I remember my mum asking me why I didn't apply for something closer to home, like sports journalism, coaching, anything along those lines. I must have known subconsciously that if anything were to take away my chance of playing professionally, I wouldn't want a reminder. I couldn't work with athletes day in day out, fit and able for the sport. I can't be reminded of the reality that no team would take a kid who got cut from his local club after an injury like this.

I could have gone for drama, I could have gone for writing, or even something strictly academic like business or law or some kind of science. Maybe I am the next great scientist, and I'll never know, because I don't even have the motivation to try and excel in my photography degree. I've always found it hard to motivate myself to do anything academic, anything that is going to end with a percentage or a grade. I do scrape by my exams and hand in my projects on time, but I realise I'm doing barely anything. They can't fail me for trying, for taking a few pictures. I know I'm not bad at my chosen field, but I keep getting the same feedback – I don't lack technical knowledge or talent, but I have no clear subject. No vision, no focus.

“Now, we need to talk about your final portfolio project. This is going to be worth 45% of your overall grade in this class -”

This snaps me out of my self pitying thoughts for a minute. That's it, I am absolutely fucked. Getting a good score on that would assure me passing this whole year, just the 40% would be enough to pull me up, but the brief... Professor Pearson always gives the hardest briefs, she's a great believer in imagination and reading between the lines, what she wants is never clear. If you interpret her wrong, you've lost it.

“I'm looking for a story,” she continues. “A story about... something. Anything. I'm going to make it easy on you, class. You all have things you love, that make your heart beat faster, you all have passion for something. What do I mean by passion? Emotion. Connection. Drive. Lust. Think of these words, because I need a set of images from you that connect, span a period of time, telling me the story of how you feel about your subject. This can be a place, a person, a team, a pet... no, not a pet, not a pet, Lucy,” she shakes her head. “You need to take this seriously. I have one rule for you. No limits. None. You can go to whatever lengths you have to, fake your death for all I care, go to Narnia! If you're passionate about Narnia, go there and show me why.”

The class is laughing, mostly at the fact that Professor Pearson definitely was showing her passion for early morning whiskey, but something else is happening in my head. She's sparked some interest. “You have eight weeks. I trust all your other assignments have been handed in, so you need to have this on my desk the day before exams start. No excuses.”

If there's anything I know about, it's tortured passion.

I bolt out the door as soon as the clock hits one, I'm across campus and back to halls in no time. I know what I have to do, it's perfect, it's the perfect plan. All I need to make it happen is a sick note from a doctor, my savings account and a plane ticket – but first, I take to the internet.

It hit me in class, while Pearson was talking about lust. Having an emotional connection to something, a lust that drives you crazy, haven't I felt that for so long? Couldn't it help me get the grades I need?

I don't know why I'm pretending to myself that this is about passing the year at university. She gave me an idea, an idea I should have had on my own a long time ago, except now I have an excuse to execute it. I didn't give up on my football career until it was long gone, why should I not even try go after the next thing in life that I love?

After my laptop starts up, I pull up a blog – the first place I check every day. Everything I need to know about the object of my affection is there after all, the Stylesontour team knows everything. Through that network I met all my friends, the people who understood me.

I open the drawer beside my desk and retrieve a scrapbook. I meant to use this for a nature project last year but couldn't really be bothered to put in that much effort – this time though, it'll be perfect. It's a black book, with a textured front cover, and closes with a metallic clasp. A white card that looks like it has been stapled on slightly askew is in the centre, and using a black sharpie I print the word _**Styles**_ on it.

This is going to be my final project.

 

Look, I'm by no means a master of crime, but I've been following the life of Harry Styles on social media for years. I know what happens at shows, I know how people have met the band, I know people who make it their business to befriend the band. I don't have bad intentions here, think of it as using my future degree to meet my idol – and getting my idol to pay me back by getting me a decent grade.

It sounds cruder than it is, it really isn't that black and white. I've wanted to see Authentic Fortnight perform for years, wanted to meet them, but the one time they toured in England I wasn't able to go. Until last summer, I didn't have the funds to go to the states to see them either. Why didn't I think of this as soon as I had the money?

I message a few people there and then, friends of mine from New York, which is where the band are starting their tour this weekend. I've been offered a place to crash before, well it was time to take them up on their offers. Within a few minutes I'm in a group conversation with some guys who are about as exhilarated with the possibility as I am – _oh my god I cant believe Louis is finally going to be at a show_ – and I don't notice the time tick by until I hear the door open behind me.

“Hey man,” it's my roommate, probably just back from a prolonged lunch with his drug dealer judging by the smell of chinese buffet and bag of weed he throws on his mattress.

I turn around in my chair to face him. “Trevor, you know how you're the best roomie ever?”

“Woah woah how much do you need, because I aint sellin if you -”

I roll my eyes. “No, god no, it's nothing like that. Are you still in the forgery business?”  
“I'm listening, Tomlinson.”

I take a deep breath. “Look Trev, I need to make a trip. About six or seven weeks long, erm, remember in Pearson's class earlier? The assignment she talked about?”  
“I was stoned but go on.”  
“Right, well I can't be in class for a few weeks since I'm effectively leaving the country. I need a note saying I have like, an almost fatal disease.”

I'm starting to sound ridiculous to myself, but Trevor isnt the kind to laugh at someone. He takes any plan very seriously, especially when it stinks a bit of criminal activity. Not that I was doing anything illegal. “I can get you a doctors note and have it find it's way into the heads office, as well as Pearson's and every lecturer on our course.”

“What's your price my man?”

“I'll think about it. For now, tell me what your project is?”

I don't know how to put this delicately enough for his ears, so I start with some story about wanting to see Authentic Fortnight live and getting pictures from a bunch of rock gigs around the states and all this. As soon as I mention Harry's name, his eyes light up.

“You're gonna try meet Harry Styles? Dude, get me pictures of his girlfriend and that's my price.”

There's something about the insinuation of the existence of Harry's rumoured girlfriend that makes me stiffen, and shoot him a less friendly look in response. “I'll give you two hundred quid if you promise to never say that to me again.”

“I can't promise that. Other than that though, neat plan. Seriously. Thought about getting around mummy dearest yet?”

Oh yeah, my mum.

I wait until Trevor has gone off to meet one of his even less upstanding friends before broaching this telephone call. I've never done anything this reckless in my life, hell I've never as much as snuck out to the shop, so what do I know about fabricating a story and an alibi? I know I'm going to have to get good at lying if this is going to work.

“Hey, it's Louis!” Apparently I've called and bit the bullet and there's nothing I can do at this point. Great planning, boy.

“Lou! I'm so glad you called, I was just thinking about you earlier.”

My mum is a sweet woman, and even though my family weren't the most sensitive in handling me when I was going through the depression that came with failing university, I know she worries. “Look, I have some news. Since we've finished all of our assignments before end of term, our class sort of organised a trip.”

I tell her we're going to do some nature documenting, since god knows that's what she thinks I do – take pictures of birds and the ocean to post on tumblr. She's completely over the moon about this, since it implicates that I've finally settled into school, I'm making friends and I'm loving my course.

“Yeah, I'm really happy mum.” I swallow a lump in my throat. Hopefully I will be soon. “I'll text you once I know my flight details, okay?”

“I'm proud of you, Lou.”

I almost feel like crying when I hang up the phone. I need to go, now. I need to be on a plane. I can't give myself time to change my mind, not now. This may be a crazy idea, but everyone does crazy things.

There's only one way to make sure I don't back out.

I find the soonest flight possible to New York City, and I book the last seat. Less than 48 hours away. I've never been as far as Spain, and now look at me. It takes me a while to realise one flaw, which is that I have no idea what to pack. To add to this, I also have no idea what I'm going to do when I get to New York.

A couple of changes of clothes, my camera and my laptop to start I guess. I have money, that settlement from the asshole who hit my car and ruined my knee left me with a nice amount. Could have got more in court, but I didn't want to put anyone through that. It was a freak weather thing.

I start letting Trevor in a bit more over the course of the next day, mainly because I need one confidant and he'll keep me updated on whats going on here in case Pearson adds to the brief, like she tends to do. Trevor is also kind of helpful and supportive, he thinks it's probably the “raddest” thing anyone could do for a grade.

One time, a few minutes before I leave to go to the airport, he asks me if I'm doing it to “get down” with Harry, to which I reply no. Because that thought never crosses my mind, ever.

I never think about Harry like that.

 


End file.
